Investments
by Pianoparamour
Summary: The investments of Bruce Wayne's alter-ego go far beyond stocks. -a collection of oneshots focusing on the Dark Knight's relationships, same universe/no order-
1. Flash Coincidence

_A/N: Thank you for reading my work, _Investments_! Please know this first chapter is short, but I do hope you keep reading. :)_

"You have to get out of this room."

"No."

The pointy-eared figure standing in the shadows of Wally West's moonlit apartment leveled his gaze on the red-head, scowling beneath his cowl. "You've got responsibilities," he growled.

"I don't give a damn about responsibilities," grunted the younger man, finally breaking beyond monosyllables. Seated and staring at the floor, he kicked angrily at nothing before reclining onto the unopened futon and glaring furiously at the ceiling. His wrinkled shirt open over a white-t looked grubby; his grimy hair stood at odd disheveled angles, and he smelt of sweat.

Batman watched as Wally scowled up at the drop ceiling, watched for what seemed like hours as the corners of his crinkled eyes slowly started leaking, as he turned away and allowed his silent tears to soak the cheap padding…wrapped his arms around himself so much like Linda would have and shook silently...

And then Bruce decided that Batman wasn't needed anymore. Slipping off his cowl, he moved to Wally's side and, still in shadow, placed a hand on man's exposed, quaking shoulder. Met without protest, he stood by him a long while…sat with him, because Bruce understood things even the Batman couldn't.

The next day, Wally left the house, took a short walk to the corner grocery, and bought some chocolate milk.


	2. Almost Mine

"Is she mine?" he asked again as she hugged her greatly expanded middle. Standing in his study with a much altered Selena Kyle, Bruce held his breath, waiting. She turned from him and cast her gaze out the window into the spacious front lawn, her hair shining in the glare from the afternoon sun as it filtered through the glass.

"You weren't supposed to find out," she mumbled, stroking her thumbs over the swell of her abdomen. "In and out—a simple job, a quickie and then gone again…"

"You didn't answer my question," Bruce said a second time, eyes boring into the back of that pretty blonde head. She'd been gone for so long, only to turn up six months later, pregnant and adamant Bruce not know it; he didn't mention it was futile to keep secrets from the Batman. He didn't mention it was foolish for a woman in her advanced condition to attempt a break-in, no matter how simple the target nor how desperate for a pay day. He didn't mention that her actions had practically begged his attention, especially when the police radio in the Batmobile transmitted a call-in on suspicious activity, what looked like a heavily pregnant woman attempting to scale a second story, alley-facing window. He'd been tempted to laugh at the suspected crank call when it came over the transmitter. Now he thanked God he hadn't simply ignored it on the slow August night.

Selena avoided his gaze, still stroking her abdomen and looking pensively into the yard. Suddenly she turned to him. "What would you have me do?" she asked, almost panicked. "I couldn't stay in Gotham! Too many witnesses, too many people out to get me, too many…"

"Selena!" he insisted, striding forward, grabbing her shoulders firmly, and looking into her clear, blue eyes. So many questions badgered him: Was she crazy? What the hell had her so desperate she thought she'd get away with it? Exactly how far along was she; when had it happened? But he had to know, _had _to know…"Is she mine?"

With what can only be described as true pain, Selena seemed to shrink in under his scrutiny. In a small voice, she gave a small answer. "No."

Three hours later, he knew the story about a man named Sam Bradley and a dark night (opposed to his Dark Knight) and a little too much to drink. In this story about asking him to stop but not pressing when he didn't, about meaning a little too much to someone and loosing yourself knowing you'd never have them, Selena told Bruce that the Batman had been the only one Catwoman had really cared for, the only one with whom she'd ever made love, that Sam was just a drunken, lonely tryst with far reaching complications, and the billionaire believed her. He believed her when she said she'd been desperate for something she knew she could never have with the Batman, no matter how much either might want it: a relationship. He almost blamed himself for her condition, hearing how she went out the night after their last liaison and slept with another man just to prove it didn't mean anything...

Bruce swore he'd be there for whatever Selena, and the child, would need. He told her that she had to put the past behind her and move on if only for the little one's stability. While Selena didn't promise anything, she listened to everything he had to say, took the card and earpiece he gave her with the Batcom's emergency frequency, accepted the check to get her on her feet, thanked him for his generosity…

And she never contacted him again.

Strange, but Bruce had almost wished it were true, that the little one inside Selena had been his. As he placed a hand on her swollen belly and felt the infant's foot or elbow move—just once, as she'd insisted—he could have imagined that the woman he loved carried a child he'd love. Dick and Tim shared with him a special bond, but neither one had ever called him "daddy," taken their first steps into his arms; neither of them had adopted the name Wayne, would carry on that family legacy. "Bruce," Selena had said, eyes strangely misty as she turned to go, stopping at the study door to touch his face again, "it never would have worked." She paused. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," he said, and though one would have never known looking at him, he was confident that the small part of the Bruce Wayne which had remained somehow intact throughout the years fissioned just a bit further.

A few weeks later, as Bruce alone sat in the dark, dank Batcave wondering about the young mother he'd last seen under such unusual circumstances—acting in ways so beyond her realms of common sense—Selena was giving birth in a small Central City hospital to her baby girl. The lengthy delivery culminated in a piercing cry.

"What's her name?" asked a maternity nurse, holding the red-faced infant as her exhausted mother reached out.

"Helena," she said, dripping sweat and a few tears, "Helena Martha Kyle."

Helena Martha Wayne.


	3. Belfry, pt 1

"I thought it would be good for you," reasoned the Big Blue Boy Scout to the Caped Crusader. He raised his arms in surrender. "It's been years since Jason died," –Superman mentally cringed, knowing how talk of "the incident" affected the other—"and it's isn't shameful to ask for help. And anyway, all you think about is work, which isn't healthy on the best of days…" His blue eyes wide and earnest, it was impossible to mistake the larger man's sincerity. "I thought it would be good for you!" he insisted again.

Batman merely looked at him stoically, though the expression might have missed the mark at menacing. The two men, alone in the Watchtower's conference room before the weekly founder's meeting, squarely faced each other as they stood to the right of the room's long center table. Superman looked admittedly nervous, Batman wan, with the turn of events.

"I don't need you to determine what would be good for me, Kent," said Batman slowly, each word laced with a deceptive, deathly calm. "I don't need _anyone_ going around trying to determine what will be done for the brooding Bat with the same in his belfry." His tone turned mocking, and he scowled.

"It wasn't just me," Superman replied moderately, uncharacteristically gentle with the hard-headed Knight. "Diana and Shayera also feel that…"

The door slid open at the most inopportune time to reveal the Flash's head. His face poking around the door frame grinned mischievously at the older two. "Hey, Soups, Bats!" he called, "Got a real treat for you guys!" In he pulled John Stewart, who sported a very short Mohawk on his usually shaved head.

"Wally," John fussed, ripping his arm away from the rambunctious rabble-rouser, "Let me go. Can't I try something new without the whole world knowing about it?"

The Flash's smirk threatened to overwhelm his features. "Well, you can try, but I don't think Shayera…"

The second time the sliding door opened, Batman was ready. "Shayera what?" asked the Thanagarian in question as she and J'onn J'onzz entered, pausing as they took notice of Batman's smooth departure.

"Where's he going?" asked the Flash innocently, craning his neck around the two newest members of their party.

Superman met Shayera's gaze levelly, and she moved the discussion away. "John," she asked easily, knowing the effervescent Flash would take the bait, "What have you done to your hair?


	4. Belfry, pt 2

Sometimes Batman regretted keeping a small private residence on the Watchtower like so many of the novices and truly full-timers. Sometimes he regretted letting another woman worm her way into his life.

"Bruce."

Diana sat next to him on the sleek bed, breaking the prolonged silence. She'd been on her way to the conference room for the weekly founder's meeting when he'd swept past her on the way to his quarters; she'd followed him instead, using her smooth voice and presence to make him (literately and figuratively) open the door.

"Bruce, I know you're angry, but we all want to help you," she said, keeping her hands folded before her. In every grace a warrior, a diplomat, she still couldn't help herself from wondering…what would it be like, stroking curiously with her fingertips his dark cowl's pointed ears?

"You can't keep going on like this," she maintained after another empty pause. "Every year you remember again, and every year you fall apart."

"I don't fall," Batman growled angrily. He turned his stare from the wall and looked at her, eyes behind white lenses piercing. That gaze mocked her; it asked _what does mighty Princess Diana know about falling with her face in the dust?_Truthfully, very little. "I've never fallen," he espoused, "I never will."

"But you think you've failed," she countered gently.

"Failure is part of life." Anyone could've seen his pain evidenced. Some things were impossible to hide.

"But not for the Batman?"

"Not with such high of stakes."

"He knew the obstacles—"

"I should have been there—"

"But he went out for a reason…"

"Which I should have been monitoring—"

"But you couldn't have—"

"I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM!" Batman screamed, getting to his feet. Finally at his wit's end, his hands shook, breath drew raggedly, heart pounded audibly. He could hear the blood rushing behind his ears. "I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM! SAVED TIM, DICK, BARBARA! I HAD THE CHANCE! HOW MANY CHILDREN'S LIVES WILL I RUIN BEFORE I'M DONE!?"

Diana, having drawn upon her Wonder Woman powers, stood ready for combat opposite him; she knew he'd never intentionally attack a teammate, but his state of mind was so fragile that anything could've snapped within a moment. She may have needed to restrain him.

Batman grabbed the low black dresser and slung it into the larger upright, smashing both to pieces. "I WAS YOUNG!" he roared, kicking the broken sections, throwing them with equal severity into the briefly remaining furniture and walls. He fell to his knees, pounding the floor with his fists. Tearing off his cowl and pulling his dark hair, tears she'd refused to shed for eleven years finally fell. "Alfred was right," he murmered under broken sobs.

When Superman found them, having flown up the separating flights in incredible panic as his ears picked up the destruction and where it originated, Diana sat on the floor, cradling Bruce's head in her strong arms. Both were finally silent.

Therepist Shondra Kinsolving got a very high profile client a few days later, but the public only knew him as Bruce Wayne.


	5. Failed You

Bruce groaned, lifting his head from the plethora of pillows as he tried (and miserably failed) to resist the alluring clang of a platter upon his mahogany bedside table. With one exposed eye, he appreciated the heaping mound of eggs, fried potatoes, and bacon, wondering how he'd ever bring himself to down his typical wheatgrass smoothie in the face of his favorite fried comforts. Alfred Pennyworth, standing near the night stand, maintained his composure well, but nearly smiled remembering how, in long past happier days, the little boy Bruce would race down to the kitchen on Sunday mornings for a hearty country breakfast before church.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," he intoned, "I trust you slept well."

Bruce glared at his father figure suspiciously, trying to gage whether or not the older man was bring sarcastic and the nature of this less-than-rude awakening. Knowing Alfred, he probably was. He chose to ignore it. "After chasing those punks over creation," he said lightly, "I'm entitled to sleep in." He yawned. "Where's Dick?"

"Already at school, sir. He left several hours ago."

"What time is it?"

"Twelve o'clock."

Bruce felt a pang of guilt as he thought of his newly acquired young ward getting up and getting himself to school. The eight-year-old had just lost his parents; Bruce remembered how lonely he was after the mugging that took Thomas and Martha Waynes' lives, how lonely he still found himself, even growing up with Alfred as his caregiver and guide. He sighed.

"If I may make a suggestion, Master Bruce," Alfred interjected, interrupting his thoughts. Now was the moment he'd considered all morning. "You may perhaps consider giving up the mantle, for his sake."

Alfred's bluntness shocked the younger man; it wasn't a secret that Alfred resented his alter-ego for its impact on his life, but to say as much so directly and to use their young ward as leverage in his crusade against the cowl was completely uncharacteristic. For a few seconds, the usually quick witted magnate could think of nothing to say.

"I have no problems caring for the child," continued the butler evenly. "Master Dick is a sweet lad, much like you at his tender age: bright and ambitious, studious and outgoing…but also as you were, he's hurting." He leveled his gaze on his own young charge. "You_, _Master Bruce, are_ as precious to me as you were to your own mother and father. I swore to them that I would protect you, and I haven't."_ His eyes misted, betraying his formal exterior. "I've watched you grow into an excellent man, but I haven't been able to stop you from coming into your more vengeful desires." He paused briefly. "Perhaps I just couldn't understand your loss. Perhaps I wasn't able to teach you that violence is senseless and you needn't give it your life. But you can understand how the young master feels, and you can do something about it."

He gave a small bow before turning to exit the bedroom. As he opened the door, he looked back at the man he very well considered his son. "You're young, Master Bruce. You have time. You can save him from this."

Shutting the door, he leaned upon the smooth, dark cherry wood for just a moment, letting a few tears fall and whispering a small something to himself, a small something to the heavens.

"_I've failed you. You trusted me, and I failed you."_

_*text in italics taken from the movie (or from the trailer of though omitted from the movie) "The Dark Night Rises"_


	6. Need to Know, pt 1

Was it ridiculous that he bought into the typical art-deco Gothamite style? Probably so, he thought, sitting on the gray nailhead sofa and watching the latest episode of his favorite social satire on the black and white, but Bruce Wayne knew he had to keep up with appearances, even if they set him decades behinds the times. Oh well, he reasoned, fashion was fashion, and this trend would pass as trends always did, even if it had been fad since the 1940s. If Gothamites wanted something to separate them from the rest of high society, antiquation would do it.

Bruce shifted uncomfortably and sighed, wishing for the high definition jumbo flat screen hidden deep underground in the cave,—Batman couldn't afford to forego advancement for fashion—but shot up when he heard door chimes echo through the cavernous mansion. "Jason!" he called to the youth in his room down the hall. He opened and closed the cherry door and called into the hallway again before heading down the stairs. "Come down!"

Short of entering the enormous foyer, Bruce paused and took notice. Alfred opened the door to reveal a professional yet materially beautiful Leslie Tompkins—her loose bun falling ever so slightly as she shook her head and smiled at his typical greeting, "Good afternoon, Ms. Tompkins. How nice to see you."—who responded to the butler in subtly flirtatious kind. "Good afternoon, Mr. Pennyworth. I trust Mr. Wayne is in?"

"Leslie," Bruce welcomed as she stepped over the threshold. "It's nice to see you again."

"And you, Bruce," she replied, leaning into the arm he threw briefly around her shoulders. She broke their half-hug and stepped back. "I wish the occasion was more pleasant."

Bruce's eyes flickered briefly toward the stairs where Jason was reluctantly beginning his decent. The billionaire's honest blue eyes revealed nothing, though the issue in question wasn't a secret to any party in the room.

"This wasn't solely a social call," she continued, if only to break the silence.

"No."

Before Bruce could reply further, the devilishly handsome, dark haired youth tramped into the entrance hall, arms folded hostilely.

"Jason," said Leslie gently. Bruce moved to rustle the boy's shaggy locks—the red roots were just becoming evident—but Jason ducked away quickly.

"Jason," he ordered, voice resigned, "Come into the parlor." Jason stood his ground until Bruce won their brief stare down. "Leslie," he added as Jason stalked away, "please, would you join us?"

Leslie nodded, and Bruce gentlemanly took her arm to lead her to the sitting room just off the foyer. Before they left the hall, Bruce turned back to the butler.

"Alfred, would you please bring some tea for our guest?"

"Of course, sir," he replied, leaving prepare a tray.

* * *

Author's Note:_ The inspiration provided by the quote mentioned in the previously posted Author's Note ("__It's lucky your father didn't live to see what you've done to his good name. He'd have died of shame."—Dr. Long, Batman TAS episode "Nothing To Fear") _has not been forsaken. Rather, it has become on of many oneshot ideas to be expanded upon in the future.


	7. Need to Know, pt 2

The seconds felt like hours. Rain pattering on the windowpanes (a sudden downpour having started just as Alfred served the tea) soothed his pounding head like a balm to chapped lips. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and noted his own cup grown cold on the coffee table.

Bruce looked to the seemingly emotionless boy sitting on the couch across from him. Jason, initially sullen, had turned completely impassive in the face of Bruce and Leslie's intervention. He stared just left of Bruce's head, uncaring gaze lingering on a specific book on the large oak bookshelf, a novelization of Brad Silberling's _City of Angels_. The movie was his favorite, the one he'd watched on the television with Bruce the night he'd been too sick to go on patrol, but he would never admit that such was the reason why. Leslie sat in the plush lounge chair to Jason's right, legs crossed, sipping her tea elegantly. She cast a glance at Bruce, who, she thought, looked so much like his late father in his concern, and touched Jason's shoulder gently, entreatingly. The youth shrugged her off without so much as a glimpse.

The ticking of the clock had become very loud to the three, and Bruce interrupted it bravely.

"I need to know, Jason," he said seriously.

That was all, five simple words comprising one of the most important questions he would ever ask. Bruce was the Batman; he suspended psychopaths from multi-story buildings and faced death on a nightly basis, he had seen the worst Gotham's seedy underbelly had to offer those brave enough (or unlucky enough) to encounter its twisted vision…but nothing could prepare him to react…to respond to his adopted son's actions, should it prove Jason had crossed that unspoken line.

"I need to know," he began again when Jason remained silent. "Did you kill him?"

Jason's eyes widened slightly, abet unintentionally, but he said nothing. He didn't have to answer to this man, this vigilante, a hypocritical hero. He wanted to put down the crime in Gotham, but refused to consider methods he deemed immoral—Jason nearly rolled his eyes as he thought the word—thus closing any real opportunity. They owed criminals nothing, least of all mercy. His real father had taught him that.

The hardest thing was projecting his disdain onto Leslie. He could resist Bruce and his overly moralistic attempts to "reach out" to him, but the good doctor was different. She had taken him in even before Bruce. He owed her, liked her, respected her even, but he couldn't, wouldn't cave, until…

"Your mother would be ashamed," said Bruce resignedly, getting up from his armchair and looking with sad eyes at his ward. Bruce wasn't new to raising a son, but nothing in his experience with Dick equipped him to navigate such a personally sensitive situation; thus, he drew on the only card he had, no matter how much it might hurt the boy. Jason loved Catherine Todd.

Bruce glanced at Leslie, who shook her head imperceptibly, and with that confirmation of her intent to stay, turned to go. But Jason broke.

"You don't know anything about my mother!" he cried, getting rapidly to his feet. His icy gaze penetrated the civilian knight, who turned and stood with his hands limp at his sides. "When you're a loving mother by day and a crack-whore by night, sucked in by your worthless husband to a life you never wanted or expected, then you can tell me whether or not you're proud of the decisions I make to keep losers like Felipe Garzonas, like Willis Todd, off our streets!" He clenched his fists and shook his head before locking his eyes, now tearing, on his new father-figure. "I'll do what I have to!" he shouted, storming toward the parlor door. He turned back just in time to see Bruce's mouth shut. "And what I do is need-to-know!"

The door slammed. In the few silent seconds that followed, Bruce acknowledged that he could've handled the situation better, instead of speaking impulsively in desperation. It was so uncharacteristic of him, but this situation so unprecedented… Would Jason ever speak to him again? Where would they go from here?

Leslie stood and placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. He looked lost, as lost as he'd looked as a boy who'd just had his world ripped out from under him by some punk with a gun. When their eyes met, she spoke softly.

"We'll figure it out, Bruce," she said. She looked toward the door Jason had slammed only moments before. "He's hurting more than we've seen."


	8. Cat's Cradle

"Mommy? Who is that man?"

Selena Kyle halted her steps and turned around, the blood freezing in her veins as the question she had been dreading for five years finally passed her daughter's innocent lips. "Man, sweetie?" she asked, feigning ignorance in a desperate bid for redemption. Perhaps the little girl would find her interest captured by something else, some story book or final bedtime request, and she'd be free to continue their nightly rituals. To her chagrin, a little hand pointed obstinately to a clipping on the dresser.

The clipping. She'd left it while putting away the laundry.

Affecting confidence she didn't feel, she sinuously sauntered (taking on the persona of the cat in her anxiousness) over to the dresser, by which stood the little girl now holding a newspaper clipping of a certain billionaire playboy's most recent social escapade. She knew it was coming, she told herself; she knew the day was coming...especially as she so carelessly left mementos scattered. Selena grabbed her daughter playfully in her arms and gave a lioness' growl as she wrangled the wildly giggling Helena into her lap on the edge of the bed. Her sweet child smelt of bubblegum toothpaste and wild berry kiddie shampoo. They examined the picture together.

Though it had been several years since she'd seen him personally, the striking man still so captivated her—even in black and white print—that he temporarily stole her breath. Evidently, he equally captured young Helena, as she stared intently at the image. With his arm wrapped just a bit too tightly around an unmistakably blonde heiress—she wondered if she ever thought of her own blonde hair draped around them as she lay atop him on moonlit slates above Gotham, the stars' sparking comparing nothing to their lustful eyes—he walked into a premier of _The SoftSpoken_ with a huge smile on his manly visage. He was gorgeous.

"That's Bruce Wayne, Kitten," she finally explained. She paused. "He's an old friend."

"How come I never met him?" Helena wondered. She pushed her thick black hair out of her round green eyes and turned to look at her mother, who to her knowledge had, curiously, fewer friends than even she. "We got his pictures everywhere."

So she'd noticed. When had she become old enough to note her mother's mild obsession? Reaching for the brush on the bedside table, she began to detangle Helena's wet mane. "Do you remember when you and Emily made that Popsicle stick castle together, but she took it home and said it wasn't yours?" she asked.

Helena winced as her mother tackled a particularly difficult tangle and replied, "Yeah, she was mean and didn't talk to me for a long time. But I helped too! 'Member?" She turned around and continued indignantly about her kindergarten endeavors. "I helped make it too, 'member? And you said she was wrong and it was just as much mine."

"Yes," Selena said, "she was." She persisted bravely, despite the negative reaction her words were sure to solicit. "Bruce was a very good friend of mine, but one day we made something together and I took it away from him. I told him it wasn't his, like Emily told you, and we haven't spoken since."

"But Mommy!" Helena gasped and jumped off of her mother's lap, outraged. "You said that was mean! You said Emily was a bad girl, Mommy, but you're not a bad girl." The sensitive toddler's eyes welled.

"No, Kitten, I'm not a bad girl." _Not anymore anyway_, her mind added. "And it was a mistake; I learned that." Selena knelt on the floor, bringing her eyes level with the child's. _She will be tall, _she thought, _like him._ "But sometimes we make mistakes and it's too late to un-make them." She put a hand on Helena's shoulder. "It doesn't matter anymore. Bruce was my friend, my best friend, and because of him I've been given some very special gifts."

"Like the finger painting I made on the fridg-idator?" the girl sniffed.

"Yes," Selena chuckled, wiping away a stray tear from her daughter's pink cheek. "Just like that. A present made with lots of special love. Because we were so close and because he gave me such a wonderful gift, I've always held a place for him in my heart."

"Maybe he could forgive you, like I forgived Emily," Helena suggested. It was just another facet of her personality for which she could thank her father; she was incredibly insightful for her tender age. "And you could be friends again. Maybe you could share what you made."

The earnestness with which she spoke filled Selena with a pang of longing, but also with such tender affection that she couldn't help but scoop Helena into her arms and hug her ferociously, rocking her back and forth. "Maybe someday, Kitten," she said, "but not today." She fought against her own tears as Helena yawned tiredly. "It's time to sleep."

"I love you, Mommy," Helena called to Selena in the doorway after she'd been thoroughly tucked and kissed and cuddled into bed. She yawned again and curled herself around the aged Isis, who had, during the course of their re-continued nightly ritual, jumped onto Helena's princess comforter and taken her usual resting place beside the child.

"I love you, Helena," Selena said, eyes tender as she took in the sight of her angels. "Sleep well, and you as well, Isis."

Sitting on the sofa in the darkness of their small apartment, Selena couldn't help but reflect on her child's innocent yet perceptive words. Could Bruce find a way to forgive her after all these years and secrets? Could she return to him, perhaps with the check she'd left un-cashed in her desk drawer, and explain to him why she couldn't take his money when she'd taken so much from him already? Could she explain the real reason she'd returned to Gotham that night, pregnant and practically begging for Bruce to find her in said condition? That she'd wanted him to take her in his arms and comfort her fears, to support her and secure her as his for the world to see? Could she tell him the reason that, in the end, she never admitted to him the truth?

Would he understand?

After all this time, the most important question was still impossible to answer. Would he accept the gift she'd stolen from him, or would he forever think of this special child as merely an extension of his love for her, merely "almost mine?"

That night, Selena picked up the phone. She cradled it in her delicate hands and nearly dialed the number she'd yet to forget. But she didn't.

Instead, she donned her cat suit for the first time in ages—amazed to find that it fit, that having a child had not so significantly and permanently altered her body as it had her life—and went for a brief run, returning through her apartment window some time later. It was the only solution, she thought, to her shaking hands and spinning thoughts, her longings and the weight of her secrets. A run for old time's sake proved useful, she maintained. It wasn't as though she hadn't broken her thieving addiction years ago. She'd told herself before and now again, _this is the last time,_ and forced herself to find sleep reasonably before two AM.

After all, she insisted, a mother had her priorities. Dwelling on the past wasn't one.


	9. A Terrible Decision

She adored without question his pudgy, dimpled legs, and especially loved the rolls resting above his knees. She relished his small shock of messy black hair, and his petit-featured, currently grimy face (he had, after all, just spoiled his dinner over a small vanilla ice cream cone). She cherished the way his blue eyes sparkled joyously in the mid-afternoon sun as he toddled around the front lawn with Duke, the neighbor's lumbering Great Dane. Really, she acknowledged, kneeling down as he enthusiastically stumbled into her open arms, there wasn't anything about her little boy she didn't prize. Swinging him around before tightening her embrace and holding him close, she inhaled the warm, sweet baby sent of bananas and Johnson's on his scalp. Already she knew these moments wouldn't last; little Bruce was growing every day.

"You're sticky, Mr. Wayne," she chuckled, dropping to her knees and tickling him as he rolled and squirmed on the manicured grass. She herself would have chlorophyll stains on her vintage Dior day dress, but it was worth it to romp and play with her miracle. "How about we go get you cleaned up?" she proposed. "If you sparkle, maybe Daddy won't notice I gave in to your sugary demands."

"Nuh-uh," Bruce managed between giggles. "No, no, no!" Wriggling away, he staggered as fast as his short limbs would carry him toward the large, black dog and got knocked on his diapered behind when greeted by the latter just as eagerly. This only made the good-natured infant laugh more. Martha stood and smiled at the proceedings indulgently as a voice from behind caused her to start.

"You know, he doesn't get that stubborn streak from me."

"Thomas." She smiled, turning to face her husband of ten years with delighted eyes. Standing on her toes, she reached to wrap her arms around his broad neck and kissed him affectionately. "How was the meeting?"

"Fox knows what he's talking about, but Toole and Sons has me nervous," Thomas admitted, keeping one arm around his wife but turning with her to watch their son at play. "I feel as though we should keep our interests as domestic as possible for now—such an acquisition can only create more pressure to cater to an international market, should the endeavor succeed—but perhaps this is just the chance we've been waiting for." He absentmindedly tugged on one corner of his full mustache. "Rory Toole is open to negotiation," he continued, "so we'll wait, see where it leads." The pair stood in companionable silence, childish laughter, the occasional bark of a dog, and chirping birds composing the only necessary soundtrack to a tranquil moment, but like all perfect moments, it inevitably passed.

"What about your other meeting?" Martha asked, her voice noticeably subdued. Knowing the subject couldn't, shouldn't be avoided, she brought herself to ask the difficult question. She tucked one strand of short brown hair nervously behind her ear, her round face troubled.

Thomas hesitated. He looked at her—his eyes, she noted for the umpteenth time, so much like those of their miracle baby—but she wouldn't meet his gaze for long. Thomas sighed, a resigned sound, and yet said nothing. They were no longer touching, and Martha could sense more than feel the rigidity with which he held himself. She felt small and nervous, but didn't know how to press the issue, and so the silence lingered.

Finally, Thomas moved. Rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes and through his shining black hair, he called out to Bruce, who, ignorant to the tension between his parents, had lost himself in a game of what seemed to be hide and be knocked over by Duke. "Bruce! What do you say we go inside, Champ? Maybe if we get cleaned up for dinner, Alfred will be so pleased he'll sit with us a spell in the parlor after!"

Instantly Bruce's chubby legs halted and his face, beaming with delight, turned toward his father. "Alf-ed?" Bruce exclaimed questioningly.

"Yes, son," Thomas replied, smiling in spite of himself. "Go ahead and lead the way; we're following behind you!" Follow they did, though more slowly, and as they walked behind their running boy, Thomas cleared his throat and spoke, his voice low.

"We have to do it, Martha. The lawyer recommended it and, after all…we've gone through so much to protect this company and our investments…shouldn't we take pains…" Again he hesitated. "Shouldn't we protect our most valuable asset?"

Martha's eyes were wide though the glare of the sun made them water dangerously. She shaded them with her right hand. "I don't want to think about it," she mumbled obstinately, realizing as she said the words how selfish and childish they sounded. Needing to further explain herself, she put a hand on Thomas's forearm to pause him. Breaking stride, he angled his body toward her, looking down on her as her own eyes focused on the grass. "It's just…Thomas…" Quickly she looked up at him and then away again toward Bruce, the latter distracted by his play with Duke. To be so young and carefree, a life who didn't know he almost wasn't…

"I...I can't imagine…" She shook her head again and continued, Thomas watching her all the while. "I can't imagine the possibility of that need, can't imagine being separated from him, not hearing him laugh, holding while he cries, wiping his nose when he's sick, spoiling his dinner…" She chuckled halfheartedly to herself, but it was a lonely sound. "Of course I want him safe and loved, always loved…but I can't imagine not being the one to assure it. It scares me to death, Thomas." Now she looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "We wanted him for so long. Don't make me imagine a scenario in which he'll be ripped away from me."

Thomas enveloped his wife compassionately, and he rocked her back and forth in his arms as they stood together in singularity. He did not cry, but his grave face suggested the gravity of their situation. It was a terrible decision to make. Martha composed herself after a short time, and wiping a tear from her rosy cheek—a gift, he often thought, of her Irish ancestry—Thomas kissed her forehead, followed by her lips. Their eyes locked, her soft cornflower on his penetrating crystal. "We will imagine only the scenario as an outlandish possibility, Darling," he said softly. "But…imagine it we must." She looked at Bruce again to find he'd thoroughly soiled himself in the mulch beneath the large, fragrantly flowering crabapple tree. She sighed and started to giggle, suddenly beside herself with the innocent picture.

"You take your eyes off him for a second," she admonished herself and her husband, suddenly smiling. "We should have known that getting him to the dinner table clean would be an ordeal." Thomas smiled too, slightly, and wrapped an arm around Martha's shoulders. That was what their miracle baby did—he brought out the best, those peaceful moments. The day they'd realized they would finally be parents, that ten years of trying and failing to conceive, that what doctors called impossible without IVF medical intervention—which Martha's strong Catholic heritage firmly prohibited—had finally occurred…well, their family had been complete that day. He had just as much trouble imagining being taken from their baby, his only son…and so he was thankful when Martha spoke to reassure their mutually racing minds.

"The likelihood is centesimal, miniscule..." she agreed, "It's just a what-if…but who could we trust?"

Thomas played with his mustache, a contemplative habit. "What about your sister?"

"Regina hasn't spoken to me in years," Martha replied, distaste for her rebellious, insensitive younger sister showing. "Who knows where she is right now? She refused to come to our wedding and the invitation to my shower was returned unopened. I doubt she even knows of Bruce's birth, if the returned announcement was any indication. I think she changed her address again without telling us."

"Our lawyer suggested, perhaps, our parents...?" Thomas mentioned, grasping at straws. Martha simply shot him a look of disbelief. Her own parents had passed years ago, and his father, though living, was greatly advanced in years and in no shape to care for a child. Neither Wayne had ever fully realized how limited their closest relations were. There were so few people, they realized, that they would trust with their miracle baby—a possibility Martha refused still to honestly consider, so much it pained them—but were there truly none?

When their proper English butler stepped out onto the ornate seating area of the rolling west lawn, took the messy Bruce in his arms without through to his own professionalism, and laughed openly at the disheveled mess that was their child, their minds reached a mutual conclusion instantaneously. Wordlessly they observed as he hugged the child and the latter, looking just as enamored, wrapped his small chubby arms around the man and smiled angelically, resting his dirty head on the man's immaculate black uniform. Though they couldn't hear exactly what was said, they could imagine the essence of Alfred's conversation by the nature of Bruce's less than angelic squirming and laughter. He was going to clean up the boy for dinner, a task he sometimes took upon himself when his master and mistress found themselves incredibly busy or entertaining. Looking over the lawn, Alfred saw Martha and Thomas and approached them with Bruce still in his arms. He stopped a respectful distance away and addressed them professionally, but with a smile.

"Master Wayne, Mrs. Wayne, shall I ready young Master Bruce for dinner?"

"Yes, Alfred," Martha replied for the both of them. Thomas squeezed her hand knowingly. "That would be lovely."

Alfred inclined his head and turned to go, but Thomas addressed him again. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?" replied he, facing the pair again, eyes curious.

This time it was Martha's turn to reassure Thomas with a squeeze. This was the right decision. "Perhaps you would sit with us for a scotch after dinner?" Thomas inquired. "Bruce will be in bed shortly after, and we have some matters we'd like to discuss."

"Also," added Martha, smiling softly, "you know that we always enjoy your company, Alfred. It's been a while since you've agreed to sit with us for drinks and conversation."

Alfred hesitated. Though he felt incredibly close to the Wayne family, it was that very reason for which he attempted to maintain a professional distance. Nearly a decade working for the couple—now, family—had turned their relationship into more of a friendship than merely one between employers and their employee. The addition of little Bruce had only enhanced this transformation; he was taken with the child as though he were his own. Often, Alfred respectfully declined such invitations, regardless of how much either party enjoyed their conversation, in an attempt to maintain a functioning business relationship, but on occasion their invitations were received, and an enjoyable time was had by all.

"I'd enjoy that very much, sir, madam," he said, inclining his head to each of them with a subtle smile on his own lips. Bruce squirmed, the energetic boy unaccustomed to being still for so long. "Dinner should be ready shortly, if you'd like to head to the dining room in about thirty minutes," he added.

"Would you consider joining us for dinner, Alfred?" Martha asked before fully realizing she might be overstepping the boundary Alfred strove so hard to maintain between employers and employee. Catching herself just in time, he remedied the situation with a graceful excuse. "Oh! Silly me! We won't even be dining indoors tonight, Alfred. I forgot to mention that we wished to dine on the veranda tonight. I hope this won't be too much of an inconvenience. I'm aware of your allergies."

"Of course not, madam," Alfred insisted, lingering smile subtlety signaling that he recognized and appreciated her tactful rectification. "Dinner should be served in about forty minutes, then."

"Thank you, Alfred," Thomas replied. With a polite nod of the head, Alfred turned away and headed with Bruce back toward the house, Duke following energetically.

Thomas and Martha stood silently for a moment before Thomas sighed. Martha rubbed a hand over her eyes and, turning to her husband, placed that same hand over the lapel of his dashing black suit jacket. His arms tightened around her. "He will be loved," Martha said, "and safe."

"And in the event something does happen—" Thomas began.

"—which it won't—" Martha interjected firmly, but she kept her hand over Thomas's heart as her own acknowledged the possibility.

Thomas tightened his embrace. "—he'll have the closest thing to his parents he's ever known. We can be thankful for that." The man kissed his wife passionately, and she sighed into his chest.

"He really does love him, doesn't he?" Martha wondered, smiling though Thomas couldn't see. Who, after all, could not love such a perfect little boy?

"I'd say so," Thomas thought aloud before continuing humorously, "He certainly listens to Alfred better than he does to you or I."

The miscommunication wasn't lost on Martha, but she continued to smile anyway, knowing that love would never be in short supply in the Wayne household.

Author's Note: _Please read and review. I'm pretty proud of this one. I'd like to thank aM and Manuel for their reassurance that someone is still reading and kind words. _ :)


	10. Boys' Night

_A/N: I hope you like this chapter. __**Please read and review!**__ Also, thanks for bearing with me as I slowly update. School; what can you do?_

"I'm going to kill you, Kent," he groused, staring out the taxi window. The man next to him grinned, thought the other, like an idiot. He turned to face his friend, serious demeanor not lessened by the dapper black suit and tie characteristic of his social side. "I've got a little green buddy in my pocket and you know I'm not afraid to use him," he vowed.

"I dunno if that's normal, Bruce," said Clark Kent jovially, feigning concern. He'd long since grown used to the precautionary measure Bruce remained prepared to take, found himself thankful for it even. Unwilling to pass up the opportunity to tease the severe man, he continued. "Maybe you should get that looked at." Bruce merely stared at him stonily as the grin split Clark's boyish face once more. The larger man started laughing, snorting just a bit as his booming mirth quieted to a chortle. "Aw, come on, Bruce. Lighten up. It's boys' night out." He good-naturedly and unconsciously clamped a large hand on Bruce's shoulder a little too forcefully, but the latter refused to flinch.

"John and Wally do just fine on their little escapades without our company," Bruce noted gravely as Clark lowered his arm. "I don't see why they need us."

"But they don't need us," Clark said happily. "They _want_ us along. Isn't that great?" He straightened his dark blue pinstriped lapels and red tie. "I don't know about you, but I feel pretty honored." Proceeding to adjust his glasses, he peered out his own left side window hopefully, looking for the classy corner drinkery. "We've never been invited before."

"Why did I let you talk me into this?"

"Aside from Wally's puppy eyes?" Clark joked. "It was a combination of threat and the promise of information."

Bruce's eyes darkened and he turned to look out the right-facing window again, actually dreading the evening to come more than the previous evening's social façade, a movie premiere, "_Seriously? 'The Softspoken'? Who wrote this stuff_?" he'd wondered. He'd been forced to socialize with at least one hundred different people at the post-premiere party, and the blonde on his arm, as always, had a way of reminding him of his past.

"A drinkery doesn't seem the usual hang out for John and Wally," Bruce added in the present. "It's not the place to pick up the kind of women they're usually into."

"They classed it up for Bruce Wayne," Clark chuckled. "We both know you wouldn't have agreed to go to 49th Street. You can't be seen just anywhere."

Bruce said nothing as the taxi pulled aside their destination, but plastered a playboy smile on his face the moment he exited the cab, paying the driver and providing a handsome tip despite Clark's insistences that they should split the fee. Clark, as Bruce's go-to reporter on serious business, had spent a fair amount of time in Bruce's company outside of their patrols, various missions, and now the Watchtower, but this would be the first time they'd embarked on an excursion for pleasure, and Clark was still mildly in awe of how well Bruce comported himself in public under constant scrutiny. Even now, he noted, several passersby on the wide sidewalks rubber-necked the debonair millionaire, and Clark by extension.

"And to think, we took a cab to deter attention," Clark mentioned mildly, smiling as he watched Bruce's social charade. "With the notice you're drawing, we could have just taken the limo."

Bruce just smiled and laughed confidently, causing a few model-esque women in short skirts and stilettos to giggle and bat their eyes as they passed by. Bruce winked and the pretty ladies giggled louder, near swooning, Clark thought. The blonde one threw him an interested look, and he blushed.

"Well, come on, Kent," Bruce encouraged boldly. He patted the larger fellow on the shoulder, a devilishly handsome grin splitting his face ear to ear. "We can't keep John and Wally waiting. It's boy's night."

Following as Bruce swaggered confidently into the drinkery, Clark mentally prepared himself for the razzing sure to come from his friends this night for being the shyest member of their small party. With Bruce keeping up his playboy arrogance, John boasting Marine confidence, and Wally sporting his innocent yet wildly flirtatious persona, quiet Kansas-raised farm boy Clark Kent was sure to be the most mild. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure that he wanted to attract womanly attention. Almost everyone except the coworker in question knew that he had, for the past seven years now, only had eyes for a certain hard-hitting female reporter on staff with him at the Daily Planet…

"Hey, guys!" came a voice from across the masculine, modern pub. Wally's red hair was hard to miss even if the direction of his vocal origin had been compromised. Clark waved a large hand and Bruce smiled assuredly as the men made their way through the respectably sized crowd to their friends. Wally and John sat across from each other in the northern most booth, looking cheerful.

Bruce surreptitiously took inventory of his surroundings. Large class windows encased the eastern and southern walls of the drinkery. Sleek, dark wood booths with padded leather seats paralleled these walls while a west facing glass and metal bar—behind which were mounted floor to ceiling mirrors and all manner of drinks on wooden shelves—stood opposite the seating arrangements. Through an open doorway into a back room, Bruce could see at least one pool table surrounded mostly by men. A fair, brunette woman in black sat perched on a high stool to its left. A man had a blonde women pressed against a west wall, and they looked like they were thoroughly enjoying themselves with flirtatious suggestion. The walls he could see, with the exception of that behind the bar, sported dark wood paneling on their lower halves and an attractive brown paint on their uppers. The crown molding was as impressive as the hardwood floors beneath his feet. All in all, Bruce thought as he noticed a leggy red-head making a new selection at the drinkery's modern equivalent of a juke box on the north wall by the bar, a seemingly reputable, fashionable place.

"John, Wally," greeted Bruce warmly, not breaking stride when they looked at him as though he'd grown two heads. "Okay, so let's get something clear here, we're starting a tab, and I'm buying!" He grinned handsomely. "If you'll excuse me for a second, I've seen something I like and I need to make an acquisition." He winked and walked toward the blonde in the next room, and his friends watched in awe as he stole her attention away from the other man like he hadn't had her pressed up against the paneling only moments before.

"So THIS is Bruce-y in his down time," Wally murmured. The man forsaken by the blonde walked right past their table, looking disgruntled. "I know I knew it, but billionaire playboy Bats just doesn't compute…"

John elbowed the younger man as he scooted over to allow Clark to sit.

"Watch it, Wally," John admonished. In many ways, he thought of the youth as his younger brother. "I didn't think I needed to tell you not to bring up that sensitive information in public." His glowing green eyes looked reprimanding for a moment before turning to scope out the scene. He wore a brown leather jacket and handsome camouflage dress shirt with brown slacks in which he felt most confident he'd attract the eyes of the fairer sex.

Wally looked crestfallen with the realization that he'd only known the Batman's identity for a few months and already he could have potentially exposed it, but he cheered readily when a curvy woman with a killer smile winked at him from near the bar. He scuffed a green converse shoe into the hardwood under the table.

"Sometimes it's hard to wrap your head around," Clark said. "I've known him for most of my career, and I'm still getting used to it. He's an actor."

Just as Clark said this, the actor returned with not only the blonde women on his arm, but also the fair brunette. The former he introduced as Brittany and the latter as Rebecca. It didn't take long for Clark to realize that Bruce intended Rebecca for him, not that this stopped Wally from hitting on her. Her eyes, however, were only for Clark, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. A gorgeous woman named Monique with a feisty personality befitting the unruly curls brushing her mocha cheeks eventually took up residence near Wally, and John had no trouble convincing the leggy red-head, Claudia, to share a few drinks with him.

A few hours and many drinks later, John and Wally decided to take a cab to their respective homes. The hour was late into the early morning but, despite their offers to share the ride, Bruce and Clark—noticeably less intoxicated—remained behind, content instead to walk the five miles back to Clark's apartment where Bruce, strangely enough, had agreed to spend the rest of the night rather than take the long return trip to Gotham. As they walked, Bruce suffered the chilly night air. Clark, not feeling the cold, only noticed with the contraction of Bruce's fists as the latter stuffed them into his pockets.

"Dick covering for you?" he asked noncommittally over the blare of a car horn. Metropolis traffic never rested just as downtown never slept.

Bruce nodded mutely, turning his face up toward the faded stars barely visible over the city's nightly glow.

"He's a good kid," said Clark, venturing to break the quiet again. "You should be proud of him."

"I am," replied Bruce briefly. Again they lapsed into silence. Bruce knew that he had to ask his questions, and Clark guessed just what information his friend sought. However, knowing Clark was reluctant to break Diana's confidence in any way, Bruce, who respected the woman but had fewer qualms about violating others' privacy than did his friend, negotiated the territory slowly.

Bruce laid a hand on Clark's arm and halted him under the glow of a street light. Around them, dinners served their wears and a club remained in full swing. He unconsciously backed ever so slightly into Clark's shadow. "I won't waste words," he began. "I could find out other ways, but I thought this the least evasive." He made direct, unabashed eye contact with his friend and again unconsciously spoke in the low, dark voice of the Batman. "I've gathered Diana is seeing a Col. Steve Trevor. I need some information on him."

If Bruce hadn't been so deadly serious, Clark would have laughed to see his friend take such serious interest in a woman. His envy was palpable. However, as long as said interest was directed at Diana, rather than Lois—as it had once been—or Selina—the woman he knew had broken Bruce's heart—he supposed it could be good for Bruce to take a sincere romantic risk again. Diana was a confident, no-fuss woman, and Clark knew she was strong enough not to be mulled over by the hard-headed Dark Knight.

"He's in the Air Force, strong, determined, sincere." Clark rubbed his chin contemplatively. "He's brave, I know, and he's seen a lot of action, but Diana says he's maintained a good sense of humor. He's very considerate of her, almost to the point that she's bothered by his chivalry. She's too independent a woman for that kind of thing."

"Amazonian pride," Bruce reiterated. "Is he a security threat?"

"Not that I'm aware of. He's dating her as Wonder Woman and Diana Prince."

Bruce stood hushed for a moment, then turned and continued walking toward Clark's apartment as though nothing had happened, but Clark sensed the conversation wasn't over. Tense silence reigned, but the night swallowed the clutter Clark's emotions, leaving him with a deep feeling of comradery. He was also relieved that he'd needed not reveal anything about Diana's private life that she'd not feel comfortable revealing herself. In fact, if Bruce could get over his pride and let his feelings for the Amazonian be scrutinized, he and his princess—Clark would never let him know that Diana loved Batman's nickname for her—were close enough friends that he could find out any information he needed from her. Bruce, in contrast to Clark, felt the night darkening his brooding apprehensions about his princess's relationship.

As they reached the door to Clark's apartment, Bruce asked a final question, the look in his eyes strangely vulnerable. "Is she sleeping with him?"

Clark, momentarily shocked, stared at his friend wide eyed. "Isn't that kind of hypocritical, Bruce?" His mouth out sped his common courtesy, so shocked was he. "You sleep with everybody."

Bruce nailed him with a stare sharp enough to pin him like an insect to the wall. "Not for me," he nearly growled. "Not for purity or piety or anything you want to attach to it." Suddenly, he looked down, refusing to meet Clark's gaze. How strange, the latter thought.

"A woman can get into trouble that way," mumbled Bruce, clearing his throat. He looked at Clark sternly again. "I'm concerned for a teammate unused to our world and customs. Her exposure to men is limited. How much can she know about sex?" he challenged.

Clark looked at him with an abiding sense of pity. If only he could tell him. There was something about Diana that no one else knew. "It's not an issue," Clark continued. "Amazons love freely, but Diana isn't interested in a physical relationship right now."

Bruce exhaled, relived but remaining expressionless. Clark put a hand on his shoulder and opened the door. "Come on," he said, "I'll get the sofa bed ready."

_Someday she'll have to tell you_, Clark thought as he closed the door; he could swear of course to nothing, but somehow he knew the spark between his friends would develop, naturally. _Someday, you'll have to know._


End file.
